Moth to the Flame
by EricFancier
Summary: Oliver Wood is haunted by a secret that won't let him sleep. To escape, he paces the dark corridors. This night, he will run into someone, and things will take a most maddening turn. Innocent ones, avert your eyes. Oliver/Quirrell, strong adult themes.


**A/N: This is my **_**very first fanfiction, ever. **_**I've neglected to post it until now mainly because I've evolved my writing style a lot since then. So people, if you have read my other stories and think this one is different, it's due to the fact that this one was the very first. Hope you like it anyway.**

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He had been dreaming again. And now he was utterly and completely delirious, out of his bloody mind. As he climbed down another set of stairs, feet burning, eyes closed, he wondered if he was really losing it this time. This was not normal, they were not normal, his dreams, he knew it. He knew that it was perfectly normal for boys in his age to have... dreams. He knew that the other boys had them. Oh, if he could get a sickle for every hour they had spent discussing Angelina's boobs or Katie's ass for that matter, on those rainy weekday afternoons when they were supposed to study... But his dreams were not of girls in tiny, tight robes. In his dreams he was... pinned down. And there was darkness, and hunger... And He would be there, ageless, faceless, yet he was everything Oliver had ever wanted, tracing steel as cold as ice and as hot as fire down his body until he... He would wake up, always in the middle of the night, panting, forehead slick with sweat, his heart pounding loud enough to make him deaf... and clutched within the grip of something he could only name as desperate rock hard lust,fromwhich he could find no release. For weeks he had had them, always the same dreams, always with him waking up as if in a bolt of fever. He had known from the first night that he couldn't stay in the dorm when it happened. He couldn't stand laying there, the echoes of the dream still prickling in his loins, and in one loin in perticular... So therefore, he paced the dark corridors of the castle in a vain attempt to escape from himself. Like now.

Oliver looked up, and realised that he had no idea where he was. The Hogwarts castle, being almost like a living and rather mischievous creature itself, could do that to you, especially during the night. Here it was freezing, and the small candles in their holders on the walls couldn't bring up enough light to make the atmosphere comfortable, so he placed his bets on the dungeons. Perhaps somewhere around the Slytherin quarters. Oliver stopped, after what seemed to him like a week's worth of running, and slumped down onto the stone floor, his back leaned against the wall. It didn't really surprise him that he was here of all places. He never knew where he headed, he just needed to _move_, it seemed to be the only thing that could soothe the burning arousal that the dreams had planted in his body. His head fell against his crossed arms as he let out a trembling sigh. This was so not like him. He was Oliver Wood, quidditch captain of the Gryffindor Team, calm and collected... He should be able to handle this. But, come to think of it; he wasn't even sure that he was that person anymore. Not since the dreams began. They scared him, but what was even worse, a part of him seemed to _long_ for them, welcome them... He never felt his heart race like it did during the dreams, not even at the Quidditch pitch. It was maddening. And there was no one to tell, no one to talk with. Not about this. A short sequence of memory passed before his eyes; Defence Against the Dark Arts class, Quirrel telling them of werewolves. Maybe it was something like this, Oliver thought, being a werewolf. To know that you had something darker hidden inside of you, brewing, waiting... and there would be nothing you could do about it, except wonder exactly when it will emerge. As the cold, stale air crept through the thin layer of his robes and into his very bones, he deeply regretted that he hadn't bothered to bring his cloak. January had England clenched in it's frozen fist, and the Hogwarts grounds were covered with a thick layer of snow. In the midst of this unholy cold winter, Oliver had turned sixteen. And the dreams had been hunting him ever since.

All of a sudden, there was a hard, crashing sound in the distance of the corridor. Oliver's reflexes, which had earned him the skills to become the superior keeper that he was, had him sprung to his feet even before the noise had died out completely. Yet he only managed to catch a short glimpse of the dim, chilly figure of light that was Peeves, before the poltergeist had hurled up the stairs accompanied by his cackling laugh. In his trace lay the broken pieces of three candleholders, their dying lights hungrily consumed by the darkness. Oliver let out the breath he had been holding and watched it turn to white mist around his mouth, his heart still pounding loud in his ears. It was then that he heard them. Steps, coming toward him. While Olivers alarmed thoughts chased through him, paralysing him, the owner of the steps emerged from the shadows. And it was the last person that he had ever expected. It was Professor Quirrel, as if summoned by his very memory. As he noticed Oliver, he came to halt, his eyes seemingly big with fear and surprise. But then, some sort of recognition appeared in his features.

"M-Mr. Wood? Oliver, i-is it? What in M-Merlins good name are you d-doing d-down here, a-at this hour, hmm?" Quirrel said, sounding more concerned than upset.

Oliver was dumbstruck. He had never been caught during his nightly wanderings until now, and he had no idea what to say. There was nothing to say, because he couldn't tell anybody. Abashed, he looked up at Quirrel, his cheeks turning red as he wondered how many of the Gryffindor points he just had sent flying out the window.

"Professor... I, erhm..." Oliver stuttered, twice as bad as Quirrel just had. But Quirrel himself just fired off one of his nervous smiles and nodded.

"N-no big deal. I w-wont tell if y-you won't." he said, the twitching in his right eye almost resembling a wink.

Oliver let out a short laugh, half nervous, half relieved. He looked at Quirrel again, and for the first time during the encounter he actually took in what he saw. Quirrel was wearing a heavy, dark cloak that almost completely hid his skinny body, and his shoulders as well as the turban he always wore were glistening with melting snow. Oliver noticed that he wasn't wearing his garlic necklace for some reason; around his neck were now instead just a plain, knitted neckerchief. And there was something _else_ with him too, something that Oliver couldn't put his finger on. To start with, he wasn't as pale as Oliver and the other students had gotten used to seeing him. He looked _healthy_, his cheeks were less hollow and reddened from the chilly air. There was some kind of glow in his face, as in the face of a starving man who just recently got his first proper meal in ages... Oliver realised that he was staring. _Yep, he was definitely losing it_. He quickly turned his gaze back to Quirrel's charcoal eyes. The professor seemed not to have noticed. He was shivering violently and rubbing his naked hands together in an almost comical fashion.

"Awf-fully c-cold down here..." he shivered. "C-cold like a snowman's b-backside, wouldn't you say?"

Oliver laughed a bit at this. In spite of most of the other students, who thought Quirrel to be too weird or even annoyingly jumpy at times, Oliver actually liked him. Though, before he departed from the school a little more than one year ago, he had been nothing like he was now. At the time when Oliver was new at Hogwarts, Quirrel already was one of the best liked teachers the school had ever had. Young and fierce, he taught nearly all of the subjects, just beginning his career with substituting. During Oliver's present time at Hogwarts, none of the other professor's lectures had ever made him listen the way Quirrel's did. Quirrel was brilliant, and they way he talked about the things he was interested in made the whole class fall silent in mesmerisation. Oliver used to think that he could learn anything, if only Quirrel were the one to teach him. But then he left off, only to come back as a completely different wizard. One of the favourite subjects of discussion among the students, when it came to Quirrel, was the nature of the gruesomeness he must have encountered to become the way he was, a shadow of his former self. Quirrel's destiny was highly rated gossip material. To Oliver, though, Quirrel was still the professor he used to like, and the one of them, except perhaps Dumbledore, who he had the most respect for. Quirrel was digging through the pockets of his robes now, apparently searching for his runaway wand. He gave a little noise of content when he found it, and stretched it out into the air so that it resembled a pointing index finger.

"F-fortunate enough, I think I j-just might have the cure for that c-cold." he said cheerfully and turned swiftly to one of the empty walls next to them, almost dropping the wand in the process.

Then, he drew some sort of pattern onto the stone with his wand, to fast for Oliver's eyes to follow it perfectly. Almost immediately there was a faint rumbling noise, and a section of the wall just big enough to leave an entrance disappeared down into the floor. Out through the newly created doorway came a warm light and a weak wave of heat, and when Oliver tilted his head to peer inside, he saw a small room, vaguely looking like an office, though very worn down. Quirrel nodded enthusiastically and held out his hand to point at the door.

"Welcome t-to my closet, Mr. Wood." he said, his cloak sweeping the ground with a rustling sound as he walked inside.

Oliver hesitated for a moment, but after turning his head and looking at the dark, cold corridor behind him, he just shrugged and slowly advanced toward the doorway as well. There were still many hours of silent night left, and in the choice between going back up to the dorm, letting the dreams grab hold of him again, and spend a little while in a small but comfy office with one of the professors, it had to be the latter. As he lowered his head to avoid slamming his brow into the low frame of the door, Oliver realised how much he really didn't want to be alone. He was sick of it. _Hell_, he thought, I _might actually have the guts to even tell him about them__._

The "closet" was actually bigger than Oliver's first glance had suggested. There was a small fireplace in a corner with a crackling fire. Yet the room had a gloomy aura to it, as if the fire wasn't strong enough to fight the darkness that surely had been there for ages. There was a sweet, fruity scent coming from a kettle that was boiling over the fire, giving the entire place a cosy impression. In the middle stood an old, creaky desk, flooded with parchments and books, both new ones and others covered in dust and cobwebs. The majority of the walls were covered in bookcases, clogged with an equal amount of books and various objects that Oliver couldn't make out the details of in the poor light. Screwing his eyes up to make out the scenery of a strange looking painting, hanging on the innermost wall, he nearly stumbled over a crimson, moth-eaten armchair, seated next to the desk. Quirrel had thrown his cloak over it, revealing his ordinary set of deep purple robes. Oliver tentatively seated himself into the surprisingly comfortable armchair, and watched Quirrel as he pulled out a ladle and two goblets from the lowest part of one of the bookcases.

"So... is this your office?" Oliver said, his eyes still wandering over the room. Everything looked so _old_, as if the room had been forgotten and unentered for maybe a hundred years or more. Quirrel let out a short laugh and discarded the three items onto the desk in front of him.

"M-my office? Oh no, n-not at all. Professor Dumbledore, the g-good man, has arranged for me a b-big, bright place up at the f-fourth floor." Quirrel said and sat down as well, onto the rickety chair that belonged to the desk. He then tapped the ladle and the goblets one time each with his wand. The items slowly slid up into the air and drifted towards the fireplace.

"T-the story of _this_ place, however, is a q-quite peculiar one. You see, d-darkness and I a-are not b-best friends anymore, if you know what I mean." Quirrel said, sounding almost a bit ashamed of the fact. Oliver hurried to nod, eager to show Quirrel that he did not find him stupid or amusing.

"I've been t-taking walks d-during night time, to try and make it b-better. And it was d-during one of these w-walks that I found the room w-were we're sitting right now. That night, I had b-been longing a whole week for s-something n-nice to read. And as I thought a-about it, there it was! The door t-that we j-just came through! Of course, I had heard of r-rooms just p-popping out around here w-when you s-seem to need them, but I had n-never seen it b-before myself. My g-guess is that this once was a p-private library of some s-sort, a long time ago. It even has a small c-cupboard behind that b-bookshelf there, for q-quills and ink."

Quirrel paused to make a slight "oh" at the sight of the goblets, now sailing back to them filled with what had been boiling in the kettle. He caught them, wincing a bit at the heat and offered one to Oliver.

"Who ever t-the owner was, he seems t-to have been very interested in w-wizarding history and just about anything t-that happened during the Middle Ages. Much of what I like to r-read about, myself. S-strange place, Hogwarts." Quirrel smiled wryly and lifted the goblet to his mouth.

Oliver, as spellbound as he always seemed to be by Quirrel's stories, shook his head slightly and looked down into the goblet in his hands. The liquid was in a dark, rich amber colour and smelled like something that reminded him of the harvesting season back at his grandmother's farm. As his fingers wrapped around the stoneware, warmth finally floated into him again, and he realised how cold he must had been. It was wonderful, soothing in a way.

"What is it?" he asked, shooting a curious glance at Quirrel.

"It's p-peach tea, with my special tinge - menthe leaves! T-try it, it will scare the s-snowman out of just anybody." Quirrel said happily and took a small sip with a loud, slurping noise.

Oliver slowly put the goblet to his lips. It was hot, but his body welcomed the heat and a shiver started by his neck, travelling all the way down his spine. It tasted like autumn and growth. And there was a tinge... it tickled his chest a bit, reminding him of the fire whiskey the twins had smuggled into the dorm... how silly. They sat in silence for a while, merely listening to the crackling of the fire and the faint sound of the icy wind outside the castle. Then Quirrel let his goblet sink, and as Oliver met his gaze he had a quizzical look on his face.

"S-so, Mr. Wood, w-what brought you down here in the first place? S-stupid question, I realise, b-but is there something bothering you?"

Oliver sighed and lowered his head. But a part of him had already decided - his secret had been eating at him from the inside long enough. He carefully settled the goblet onto the desk, then leant back, crossing his arms slightly. Somehow, he had to confide to someone, and why not Quirrel? Maybe there was an explanation, some sort of solution, maybe it didn't have to be like this...

"I... couldn't sleep. I haven't been able to sleep very well for some time. I've been having... dreams." he mumbled, and regretted it the moment the words stumbled out. How could he have believed that anyone would understand? He didn't bloody understand it himself. _How could he ever tell_... Quirrel looked questioned.

"Everybody has nightmares, and s-sometimes they are so frightful that it's h-hard to fall asleep again, but it's q-quite normal, I would say."

"It's not like that... they are not..."

"What are they about?"

Oliver felt Quirrel's gaze upon him, and it felt just like he could _see_ everything Oliver so desperately tried to hide in the back of his head. How he would wake up, his mind still left in the dream, his whole body positively _writhing_ with hunger and muzzled moans spilling over his lips down into the pillow... the entire low part of his body pounding, burning and thrusting unconsciously into the mattress, his cock hard like marble and weeping, needing, aching for friction... friction like He would give him, with his soft, velvet hands and hot searing mouth and there would be pain sweet _pain _but it wouldn't matter 'cause the pleasure, he needed it needed _Him _and He would grasp him hold him tight and _oh my fucking God._

Oliver drove his front teeth into his lip to stop himself from gasping out loud. He loosened his fists and opened his eyes that he didn't realise he had been shutting tight. Blood was pounding in his every vein, hard, as if wanting to escape his bodily prison. He was so horny it hurt. He looked down, only to discover the biggest hard-on he had sported in his entire life, outlining itself among the creases of his robes. _Fuck._Blushing madly, not knowing what in the world to do, he just sat there and tried to remain calm while his whole body was screaming with fever.

"I... I can't..." he rambled out into the air, his voice echoing in the choking silence.

And then, he looked at Quirrel. He could have sworn that the professor's gaze itself forced him to do it, as if an invisible hand had grabbed his chin and tilted his head upwards. And when he did, he realised that it probably was a good thing that he sat down already, as much as his body wanted to recoil. Quirrel was looking at him in a way that was not Quirrel at all. The charcoal depths that were his eyes were hardened like diamonds, and Oliver knew that he could see right into his quivering soul with those eyes. For one outdrawn, heart stopping moment Oliver thought that he saw the beginning of a wicked smile in the corner of the professor's mouth, and his insides jolted as if he had experienced an electric shock. Then, there was a swift, whooshing sound, and all of a sudden the room was drowned in darkness.

"Oh m-my goodness, did you see t-that?!" Quirrel stumbled, an alarmed tone in his voice. Oliver, shaking his head to get rid of the hallucination, because it_must _have been one, heard him get up, knocking the chair over in his haste and hurrying towards the fireplace.

"H-how strange, the f-firewood is all g-gone! How c-could that be? P-peculiar, indeed… Surely, t-there must be some l-left of the spares I b-brought last time…"

A wooden door slammed open at the far end of the room, and Oliver heard Quirrel going through what must be a cupboard, littering the floor with something that sounded like paper while he did. Oliver realised that he was panting and took a deep breath to regain control over himself. It was then that he noticed that the darkness wasn't so dark at all. There was some kind of glowing, blueish light coming from between two of the bookcases at Oliver's side of the room, very faint but bright enough for him to notice it. Without any particular reason, he rose and walked toward it. As he came up close, he discovered that where there should have been just a plain piece of wall was instead a narrow passageway. He was sure it hadn't been there when he first walked into the room, and though not believing his own eyes he couldn't tear them from it. Without him being able to stop them, his feet began treading trough the opening. He had an unexplainable feeling in his gut, in every part of his body, _that this was it._ This was where he had been ment to end up in the first place, and like the flame to a moth it was irresistible. He couldn't have stopped himself if he had wanted to. The sounds of Quirrel's searching died down as he moved on, until the corridor ended in another room.

The first thought that shot through Oliver's oddly clouded brain was of Filch. _There had been some truth to the old git's tales after all. _The chamber, in which he now stood, was circular in shape, and blue, eerie light came from what Oliver guessed must be an enchanted chandelier. Most of the floor, as well as every inch of the walls, where covered by obscure constructions that he realised could be nothing other than different torture devices. Wood and metal, forming spikes and... chains. There where chains everywhere. Chains coming out of benches, chains with strange and probably extremely painful attachments to their endings... When he looked up, he even saw chains in different lenghts hanging from the roof, each one of them ending in a hook or something that reminded him of thumbscrews. Oliver's heart was racing, his mouth dry with fear and, god damn it, fascination. _Pain. This had been a room of pain... and submission._ A violent shiver sent goosebumps out onto his arms, partly because of the sheer atmosphere, but mostly because of the fact that someone had just let out a hot breath against the back off his neck. Oliver swallowed down the lump in his throat and turned around, as fast as his wobbly legs would let him.

The professor stood just inches away from him, blocking the entrance to the chamber with his figure. And Oliver knew. Whoever this man was, he was not Quirrel. Not anymore, at least. Allthough Oliver knew for a fact that the professor and he were almost equal in height, he could not recall ever feeling _so small_. And that gaze... taking him in, roaming over his body, it felt almost like a physical caress... All of a sudden, Oliver felt naked, though it had started to turn very warm under his thin layer of robes.

"Do you like it?" the professor said, slyly, every hint of Quirrels insecurity gone from his voice. And there it was, that wicked smile again, ghosting over the paleness of the older man's lips. It didn't scare Oliver as much as it had him entranced.

"Professor... I..."

"Come on, we both know why you're _really _here, don't we?" the older man said, slowly, tantalizing. And then, he reached out his hand to touch Oliver's face.

As the hot, velvet fingers stroked his cheekbone down to his chin, agonizingly slow, Oliver gasped involuntarily, his lips parting as his eyelids fell shut. His whole body reacted to the caress, a surge of heat found it's way to his groin, and suddenly he was more aroused than he had ever been. _I'm going to die if he stops_, Oliver thought, his head tilting upwards to prolong the stroke. For the lenght of a heartbeat, the fingers left him, only to be replaced by... lips. Wet, hungry lips enclosed the throbbing veins at the side of his neck, sucking, teeth scraping him just slightly, and Oliver desperatly grasped the strong arms that wrapped around him to prevent himself from losing his ballance, losing himself, losing his mind... The talented mouth travelled down to the soft spot at the base of his throat and kissed down hard, merciless. Oliver was panting out loud now, his hips bucking as a wonderfully rough hand found the aching bulge within his robes and started to stroke it. His eyes flew open, and he met the older man's gaze as through a haze. The professor's eyes were dark, enchanting, and before Oliver knew it their lips where grazing. And he gave in, gave in to the bruising kiss that made stars explode behind his eyelids, gave in to the strong body that pressed against his own, merging them together... Oliver tasted blood, but he wasn't sure which one of them who bled, the stale metal taste only seeming to arouse them both even more. The hand that had been stroking him slid up, snaking around his back to grab his arse. Oliver's knees bucked, his hips shot forward, only to meet another sensation; the older man's erection, harder than steel, grinding against his own throbbing cock... friction, delicious_friction..._ Oliver moaned into the other man's mouth. It was furious, intoxicating... and he _wanted _it, wanted it so much he almost couldn't stand it... Still caught in the depth of the kiss, he was pushed backwards, until his back connected with something solid.

Had Oliver been able to shoot a glance backwards he would have seen a wooden bench, it's shape resembling that of a cross, slightly tilted upwards. But he could as well had been blind due to the waves of pleasure the other man caused by sucking at his throat, nibbling him raw. When he tore his mouth away, Oliver was already lying with his back against the construction, and his whole body wept at the loss of contact. The professor broke away from him, just long enough for their eyes to meet. What Oliver saw was nothing but fire and... lust. Violent lust. He wanted Oliver, and he was going to take him, wether he approved or not. Somehow, that didn't bother him, as long as he could feel those seductive fingers again, and that mouth, he needed that mouth to devour him, he would do anything... The professor smiled viciously, and for the second time that night Oliver was sure that he just had seen everything that bolted through his aroused mind. He lent over him again, but it wasn't until the tip of it touched his chest that Oliver noticed that the professor now had his wand in his hand.

There was a flare of something in the pit of Oliver's stomach that could have been fear, but it was muffled by his sheer surging of his longing. A short burst of mumbled words spilled over the professor's lips, and along with his body's reaction to the sudden change of temperature, realization dawned in Oliver - he was indeed naked now, his robes lying scattered all over the floor. He noticed something else, too - both of his arms were drawn out to the point where it almost hurt, his wrists attached tightly to the arms of the cross with thin, silvery chains that looked oddly new compared to the others he had seen. He was... _pinned down_. Uncomfortably aware of the sticky puddle of precome his throbbing cock was oozing onto his abdomen, he tried his strenght against the chains, but there was no use. There was no getting out. Chest heaving and cheeks burning, Oliver turned his wide-eyed gaze to the professor. The older man's eyes were on a fiery journey over Oliver's milky skin, tracing every fine line of muscle. Then, stopping at his torso, he held out his wand again and wispered something Oliver couldn't make out, harsh and dark, forbidden. At this, the tip of his wand transformed into a fine, sharp and pointy blade. Before Oliver had even predicted it, the older man had settled the blade against the left side of his ribs and started to drive it across his flesh.

It hurt, but he didn't scream. Instead, a loud groan escaped from deep down his throat as firm fingers wrapped around the aching shaft of his cock, squeezing it tightly. The blade slowly travelled on down to his abdomen, leaving a fine cut just deep enough to make tiny pearls of blood appear and settle on his skin. Amazed, Oliver found that the trickling pain only intensified the sensations the older man gave him by slowly squeezing and stroking his erection, and he lost himself in the feeling, strangled moans escaping his mouth and his hips arching up to meet the talented hand. It wasn't the first time somebody had touched him there, he had had his share of groping around with equally unexperienced girls behind empty lockerrooms. But it was nothing like this, not at all. Oh, if he had only known how it could feel like...

"So perfect... so _pure_..." the professor hissed, his voice strained with tension, and all of sudden the blade was gone from where it had stopped at Oliver's hipbone.

Oliver groaned with frustration when his cock was abandoned, only to have his mind blown away again by the feeling of a warm, stroking tounge against his newly created wound and teasing fingers that pinched his nipples until they were hard as pebbles. _It was heaven, or hell, he didn't care, he was lost in it, oh please don't stop it's so good I can't oh yes lower lower I need..._

"Oh... _fuck!_" Oliver hissed, the back of his head slamming against the wood as the professor embraced his cock with his mouth.

Tounge spiralling over the swollen head and lips, sucking at him furiously, up and down... Oliver's wrists were tearing at the chains, his whole body writhing as if in cramp, and all he could produce were faint moans and nonsense. If this would not make him go crazy, nothing hips begun thrusting upwards by their own accord, but strong hands immediately clasped his thighs and held him down. The slick, warm sensation around his cock quickened in pace, and all too soon Oliver felt the familiar tension in his gut, only ten times more powerful than usual. He was going to cum, cum so hard... But then, the mouth broke off, and Oliver thought that he would die from agony and frustration. The professor rose quickly, and though Oliver could sense his impatience from his breathing, his hands never trembled while they loosened his belt and undid his robes. In no time at all, the professor was naked aswell, apart from the turban, smooth skin pale in the moonlight. And Oliver, though his vision was somewhat clouded by arousal, saw it. The older man's cock, lined up against his stomach, hard and throbbing. _Merlin, he's huge_,Oliver thought, but then the professor moved in between his legs, nudging them apart as he did, and let the slick head of his member slide against his entrance.

Oliver gasped as the velvet hand once again found his erection and started to pump fast, extracting enough pre-come to coat his fingers. Oliver's eyes fell shut as he was suddenly intruded in a way he had never been before. Wet fingers massaged the puckered hole before sliding into him, surprisingly easy, strecthing him... and then, a bolt of pleasure so intense that he almost couldn't stop himself from screaming. But he didn't have much time to relish the feeling before the fingers were gone, and he missed them as soon as they left. Suddenly, one of the professor's hands were on his chin, tilting his head upwards so that Oliver met his gaze. Then, he thrusted his hips forward hard, burying himself in Oliver's virgin heat. And Oliver screamed. Screamed so that the echoes filled up the chamber, bouncing back to them, only to meet with the professor's hoarse laugh.

"Scream all you want, sweetness, it... becomes you." the professor hissed between his grunts, fastening his pace.

Oliver's fingernails clawed deep red marks into his own palms as he was caught in the maddening rythm, grunts and guttural moans forcing their way up his throat. The feeling of the hard, slick cock inside of him, invading him with full, steady strokes, faster and faster... It hurt, but _oh God, _it was a sweet pain, a pain that slowly transformed itself into burning, mindblowing pleasure, pleasure that rippled up along his spine and blackened his vision. As the professor drove his teeth into Olivers neck, his ragged breathing against his ear, Oliver was beyond himself, lifting his weak legs up to wrap them around the older mans back, driving him _deeper_... And finally, fingers around his cock again, grasping him, jerking him, and as the surging waves of pleasure built up from inside of his very core, Oliver wasn't sure which pleas he sent bursting over his lips, only that they were of _harder please deeper oh my fucking God please fuck me fuck me harder yes like that oh I'm gonna oh..._And he exploaded, hot strings of seed splattering up between them, he came and he wouldn't stop cumming, he trembled and came, trembled and came, until all he could muster was shallow breaths. He vaguely felt the older man tense, slamming his cock deep into him one last time, shooting liquid fire hard into him with a strangled hiss. The lips, still pressed hard against Oliver's neck, formed themselves into a wicked grin. And then, there was only darkness and the still racing beat of Oliver's heart.

*

A sharp wave of light. It danced across Oliver's closed eyelids, drawing him up from the dark place he'd been residing in. Sharp. _Like a fine and pointy blade._ He opened his eyes, looking straight into the big fire that always erupted by itself in the common room's fireplace early in the morning. His head felt as though wrapped in cotton, and he had a dull taste of something foreign in his mouth. _Some kind of... fruit?_ The couch was oddly cold, as if he hadn't been on it for very long. The common room was still empty and silent. It must be early. Had he gone down here to... fetch water? He didn't remember. _Pain._ He sat up, drawing up the sleeves of his robe and looked down at his hands. Red marks, shaped like halfmoons, imbedded in the flesh of his palms. He couldn't for his life understand where they had come from. But he understood something, however, by the way his blood was still burning in his veins and the faint echo of forbidden lust that still throbbed in his groin.

_He had been dreaming again._


End file.
